


Seppuku

by cartouche



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abstract, Anal Sex, Basically they both have big problems, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Cannibalism, Hand Jobs, Hanni thinks Will tastes good, Like, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, WARNING WARNING BLOOD AHEAD, abstract butt sex, and stuff, because i can't write porn, hannibal should just be a vampire srsly, how do i tag again?, i actually feel for bedelia and alana, major blood kink, oh and technically, putting up with these jokers., will's not too sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just one more, he tells himself, just one more and then I'll stop. I'll stop for good, I won't let it rule me anymore. </p><p>There is a special place in hell reserved for him. </p><p>Tomorrow Jack will call him out to another scene of blood and death and beauty and make him look. Tomorrow Beverly will ask him if he's ok, tell him to sit down because he looks pale.Tomorrow he will crawl back into his arms, needily, like a small child, and let the process begin again.</p><p>Just one more, he tells himself, then I'll stop. </p><p> </p><p>It's a lie, the same one he tells himself every night.<br/>-<br/>Trigger warning for blood, blood kink and general murder and cannibalism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seppuku

**Author's Note:**

> Seppuku
> 
> (n.) 
> 
> A ritual suicide by disembowelment with a sword, formerly practised in Japan by samurai as an honourable alternative to disgrace or execution.
> 
> This is your last warning about the blood kink now. If you don't like it please don't read. I'd rather you were fine.

_Twisting the bones until they snap_

_I scream but no one knows_

_You say I'm familiar, cold to touch_

_And then you turn and go_

* * *

_Just one more,_ he tells himself, _just one more and then I'll stop. I'll stop for good, I won't let it rule me anymore, own me._ He whispers it silently, lips forming words that will never be born, never get to taste the sweetness of life before fading into the darkness they came from. Instead he tilts his head back and grips the cold steel tighter.

There's a sickness in his mind, and he knows it, a taint that's slowly spreading, consuming him. He can feel it, crawling through his bones and pooling in his heart. His mind throbs and dimly he notes the pain, but he can't think about it, all he can do it push harder and shift his hips, seeking friction that isn't there.

The scalpel splits his skin with ease, opening up his flesh and he can feel his blood trickling out steadily, pooling in a warm crimson puddle by his hip bone and a chuckle emerges from the darkness, a cool finger trailing along his jaw and he hates himself but the moan building in his throat slips out and _God,_ he thinks, _how the mighty have fallen._

 _Ah my sweet Will,_ the voice says, low and smooth, exotic, accented, and he writhes harder, the unbearable heat in his groin blazing. _You look perfect, positively delectable._ He closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut and the darkness behind his eyelids is horribly alive. The devil himself leans over Will and a warm tongue laps steadily at his blood, a dog by a bowl on a hot day. He's greedy and takes and takes and Will gives because he needs this, needs everything.

There is a special place in hell reserved for him.

He clutches the scalpel and brings it down again, carving lines into his skin, into old scars, bone white and healed, reopening them. He aches and throbs, every part of him, lying in a pool of his own blood while he is devoured, a feast, a sacrifice.

Tomorrow (or is it today?) Jack will call him out to another scene of blood and death and beauty and make him look.

Tomorrow Beverly will ask him if he's ok, tell him to sit down because he looks pale.

Tomorrow he will crawl back into his arms, needily, like a small child, and let the process begin again.

He digs the blade in too deep and moans again, somewhere lost between pain and pleasure. He's carving himself up, the main course, serving himself straight into the jaws of hell. A mouth latches on and he's sucking, drawing heavy drops out on to his tongue, drinking Will's life force. Then he stops, draws back and Will opens his eyes to stare upwards at his saviour, teeth stained red and eyes like bottomless pits. He sees the hunger, insatiable, ravenous and shivers, because he's scared, terrified and so very very warm. The hand returns, slow and steady as a surgeon's, and his traitorous body leans into it, back arched and gaze transfixed. It winds its way, torturously slowly, and finally, finally, wraps itself around the aching heat, dragging a moan from his lips with a long, firm stroke.

 _Just one more,_ he tells himself, _then I'll stop._

It's a lie, the same one he tells himself every night.

He comes undone embarrassingly quickly, gushing his seed on to his stomach, watching lazily as it mingles with his blood in flowing patterns, strangely artistic. His mind settles down into a lazy hum, a glowing ember left after the fire has burnt down and all he wants is to flop backwards, bury himself in sheets worth more than his monthly paycheck, mourn for the remnants of his sanity. But he should have known it's not enough, it's never enough, he always pushes, pushes _too hard_ and _not enough_. Fingers still tug at him, slow and demanding, coaxing away his softness with a flick of his wrist. There's a twinge, low in his body, a warning that this can't go on because he's broken enough as it is, but the fire is already being fanned again, springing back into life with a sweltering heat. Will checks and yes, he's already at half mast, as deplorable and disgusting as it is. The sensitivity is almost too much to bear and he writhes, splitting open scabs to let more crimson rivers appear and he realises, that was only the appetizer. Part of him wonders if he knows what a refractory period is. He leans down, teeth grazing his neck hard enough that he knows he'll have trouble hiding the results tomorrow, amethyst set on ruby, and a slick finger rubs at his hole, leaving Will questioning when exactly he had managed to get lube. Perhaps it's his blood, metallic and cloying, and his voice breaks when he's forced open, roughly. Sweat burns in his wounds and teeth tear at his damaged collarbone, ripping out a chunk of living, breathing skin.

It can't continue.

It's destroying him.

He's noticed, when he bothers to look in a mirror, which is rarely these days. He sees the network of scars, pale and shiny, webbed across his body, overlaid by the newest, still red, angrily scabbed. He sees skin, pale as the first fall of snow, the dark hollows engulfing his eyes, the jut of his ribs hemming a sunken stomach. It's killing him, but he can't stop, because it's all he knows now, conditioned into submission. A sick voice in his head reminds him that he likes it, perhaps always liked it, and he's an addict, always looking for the next fix, and his drug is blood.

Dredging through his mind, anything to escape from the fingers, 3, pistoning relentlessly in and out, God he's hard again, he remembers the first time. It's a stupid thing, breaking a glass, but it's expensive, of course it is, and he fumbles down for it, hoping to salvage the cut crystal. He feels the sharp edge slide across his palm a moment too late, jumping up and watching, fascinated as a stream of blood curls out of the wound and winds down his wrist. He turns, mouth open to ask for a first aid kit, a bandage, something to stop the bleeding. He's there, immaculate as always, but something has changed, nostrils flared and pupils blown, a shark scenting blood in the water, positioned carefully by the exit. Will wonders, honestly, how he didn't see it before, how one stupid simple cut could reveal everything, could peel back the blindfold. He's been hiding in plain sight all along, playing at being normal, hiding himself so well he's got all of them fooled. Thin slivers of maroon watch him curiously and he knows, knows that Will's seen the hunger, all consuming, and is patiently waiting, waiting to see his reaction. His legs tell him to run, flee the beast, his arms to fight, reach for his gun and pull the trigger. His mind, for once, is surprisingly quiet.

He takes a careful step forwards, approaching him like a stray, body posture unthreatening and submissive. He cocks his head and watches, knowing there is a gun holstered right there on his hip, Will can feel it. Another step. Shoulders, broad and plaid covered, tense and Will for one horrible second, thinks this is it. The end. The next time Jack sees him will be drizzled in demi-glace on a bed of new potatoes. For a moment he watches the blood on his hand, twitching his fingers to elicit a fresh stream, noting where it disappears past the cuff of his ruined shirt. Then, carefully and oh so slowly because there's a predator in the room, something dangerous, he raises it outwards, a gift, a blood offering raised up to a god. His body screams at him, tells him he's insane, that he'll never make it out of this room alive.

The pause is agonising. Eyes judge him, flicker about the room, weighing up options, weapons, exits, and Will knows he's won because it would be such a terrible shame to get blood all over the floorboards. Will bends, slowly, mindful of the eyes that follow his movements, hawk like. He retrieves a sizable chunk of glass, and raises it to his hand, slicing it through scabbing flesh, deeper, permanent, biting back a wince. Blood pours, a fountain of life, a veritable feast, and it seems to make up his mind because it would be such a terrible waste, rude not to acknowledge the oblation. He's crossed the room quicker than Will thought possible, strong hand catching his wrist and raising his fingers upwards. He watches, hypnotised, as a tongue flickers out from between dusky lips and runs reverently along the slit in his palm.

The erection hits him like a bulldozer, a pure wave of arousal he'd never realised he was capable of possessing, broken as he is. His other hand is already pressing at his crotch, pressing into rough denim in a pathetic attempt to relieve the pressure that's mounting, to no avail. The tongue laps hungrily, nipping and sucking to coax more precious liquid out and he knows this is the end, his death, because the hunger is voracious, uncontrollable and one day will consume him whole. He's signed his own warrant, pressed the big red button and there is no going back. It hardly scares him.

There are lips, on his, brutal and unyielding, tearing at his mouth until a metallic warmth mingles in the kiss, and distantly he realises it's his blood. Nothing seems to matter any more, because he's so very hot, and the room isn't big enough and he's going to suffocate here, drown. Vaguely he wonders how he tastes, whether he was worth it, because he's hardly a connoisseur, and yet in some strange way he is because he's been eating them, happily gorging himself while a crime scene digests in his stomach. The devil wraps his hands around his heart and he's lost.

A clean bandage is applied after disinfectant and he's lead dumbly back into the dining room, a dog on a leash, half wondering if any of that was real, if he's going to wake up in a straightjacket staring at padded walls. He's painfully uncomfortable, zipper digging too hard into sensitive skin, and it's not enough. He squirms against the high back of his chair and wonders if it would be rude to relieve himself, work down his trousers and push his hand into his boxers, anything to make it stop. A stern look is thrown in his direction and he considers, not for the first time, if mind reading is a scientific possibility because there is no way he could have known. A plate is placed gratefully in front of him, a challenge, and his only relief is the broken drape of dark slacks, a reminder.

He asks who he's eating with a curl of lips as his only response. He doesn't know if he wanted the answer. The meal is delicious, of course it is, exquisitely cooked and perfectly presented. He feels everything ebb and flow back into a shattered normalcy and tells himself it was a dream, nothing more, a ridiculous fantasy projected by dark wine in an empty stomach and self imposed isolation. The question of dessert comes in familiar, quiet tones that he hears one a week, in an office and he convinces himself to forget, accept that he's nothing more than meat, ready to be slaughtered now the game is up. He risks a glance upwards and catches eyes that glimmer with an unspoken promise and suddenly it all rushes back to him, hot and hard and before he knows what's happened he's lying half naked in a bed he's never seen before and instinctually knows is his, moaning shamelessly as artist's hands trail his body.

It becomes a terrifying necessity, and endless loop. Jack forces him to look and he goes running right back into arms so friendly they're cruel, ready to be eaten again, devoured. Everytime he tells himself, this is it, this is the last time. Everytime he ends up achingly needy on the same doorstep and he never ever says no.

He's sold his soul to the devil. Not even death can save him.

An insistent burn drags him back into a painfully pleasant reality, the slick rub of skin on skin, the lips running too carefully down his neck, nosing at his hammering pulse. His blunt nails are clawed deep into cords of muscles and part of Will wants to chuckle. Masochist. There is a tickle of hair on his cheek and dimly he realises the gasping is coming from his own mouth, open and panting. He wraps his ankles together around slim hips and squeezes with everything he has left, forcing another inch and a groan from lips so usually controlled. For a moment he relishes in the power he holds, how he has eluded the shark, the sole survivor. He should be dead, and in a way he is, mind filled with thoughts that are not his own. He scratches deeper, gouging at flesh as a reminder, and part of him wishes he could see him squirm tomorrow, forced to sit and smile and listen while his shoulders ache under woolen plaid and 100% cotton. Desire is hard, curled up against his stomach and he bucks, needily, searching for friction that isn't there and movement that won't come. The burn is unbearable, always worse the second time around, the throb that racks him to the core until salt clings to his cheeks only to be lapped away. Then he moves and everything makes sense again, the flash of blinding light that sears his retinas and the heat that scorches his mind. The pace is punishing, accompanied by the sounds of skin on skin and it's all he can do but quiver and take it, every gloriously painful second. Teeth clamp down on his shoulders, neck, chest, anywhere they can reach, adding to the myriad of crescent shaped scars that litter his skin, permenant markers of ownership. His vision greys and his head swims because really it's a little hard to breathe and he slams into his abused prostate again and again and again, murmuring words Will doesn't know from a language he's never heard. Dimly he remembers the sticky mess of blood and sweat and his own seed, and he can't stop the elation at knowing he's the one ruining thousand count sheets and plush pillows. He tries to sneak at hand down between their writhing bodies but sharp teeth tear at his shoulder and he gives up with a whimper, resorting to flopping back, allowing himself to be used, broken, undone, but never lost.

Time becomes meaningless here, with nothing but sounds, feelings, the unmistakable burn to anchor him. His orgasm surprises him, untouched, and it could be seconds or days since the first breach of his body. The scalpel is still here, digging coldly against his side and he knows he'll have a limp tomorrow, another awkward question from Jack, another excuse to make. His seed is cooling between them, thick sticky ropes and Will needs to stop before he spirals so far he loses himself completely. His fingers finds the sharp edge of the blade and he raises it to closed lips, sighing as the digit is readily sucked in, tongue curling around it to lap at it. He struggles not to become hard again, hazy in post coitus. Hips falter and the rhythm stutters, erratic and mistimed and there's something horrifically graceful about the beast above him, drinking from him as hot cum lines his walls and finally, finally it's all over and he collapse, relax, heal.

Heaven has never been closer.

It can't go on, and he knows it. He's already breaking, chalk white bones and pallid skin, and even as he's feeding the hunger he's dying, each part of him slowly wasting away until, eventually there will be nothing left. A phone buzzes somewhere to his left breaking the serenity and it's answered by the voice of temptation. He can hear Jack's surprise through the tinny speaker and he allows himself a silent curse. It's his phone and it's 4 am and it's just been answered by his psychiatrist.

 _Will was sleepwalking,_ comes the smooth response and he has to admire how calm he is, how he can even his voice when he's still naked and buried deep inside Will, post coital haze apparently having no effect. _He turned up on my doorstep and I took him in. He's just fallen asleep._ Their relationship is built on lies, because they both know this could never continue without them, the facade that they have built up, unstable profiler and his unorthodox therapist.

Jack readily takes that bait and thanks him for not letting his best sniffer dog get run over on the streets of Baltimore. Will's laugh is stifled by a mouth covering his own.

The Ripper has ripped again and for a moment even the devil looks confused, carefully questioning whether dear old Uncle Jack is sure as sure. His fridge is well stocked, brimming with organs and fresh meat, and he has no recollection of a slimy pet store owner. Will relishes the uncertainty, the disorientation like a fine finger of whiskey on a cold winter's night.

 _Yes, it's the Ripper,_ Jack confirms, same MO, mutilation, organ removal, artistic display, perhaps a little messier than usual but still him. They're sure.

It takes a moment for understanding to dawn in dark, dark eyes and he twitches at the swelling feeling inside him, the growing hardness, the rekindled hunger. He tells Jack he will be there as soon as possible, and to go easy on poor Will who has wandered miles of tarmac bare foot and will have no doubt acquired a nasty limp before hanging up. And this time, Will knows it is his salvation. He's finally transformed and saved himself, them both. Lips touch almost hesitantly and for the first time there is no teeth, no blood, no pain and Will wonders if this is how normal people kiss, soft and tender. There's plenty of time before Jack needs them and Will smiles and pushes back.

Well, if you can't beat God, become him.

* * *

 

_See how we planned for saddened eyes_

_And tears to pave the way_

_I fought the fever as I knew_

_My hair returned to gray_

_You wanted all I had to give_

_See me, I feel, see me, I live_

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics from this odd 80's song, [ Feels Like Heaven](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=v81cJiuS2oI) by the aptly named Fiction Factory. 
> 
> I have no excuse for abstract porny blood kink nonsense, sorry. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are all loved on by me.


End file.
